


Tourniquet

by pianoforeplay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-15
Updated: 2011-04-15
Packaged: 2017-10-18 02:32:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pianoforeplay/pseuds/pianoforeplay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean heal each other, always have and always will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tourniquet

**Author's Note:**

> Though this fic takes place sometime around S1 or S2, there are some allusions to some underage stuff here. Nothing explicit, but still. Written to go with smallworld_inc's [artwork](http://smallworld-inc.livejournal.com/3686.html) (NSFW!) and initially posted [here](http://pianoforeplay.livejournal.com/42626.html) on 11/17/2010.

Kneeling in close, Sam uses one of the thin, scratchy motel washcloths to clean the wound, the thumb of his other hand brushing the smooth, unblemished skin just below in soothing circles. Despite the light touch, Dean hisses, his muscles tensing under Sam's grip. But he doesn't once tell Sam to stop, and Sam doesn't expect him to.

He cleanses the area with a splash of peroxide and then leans in to blow it dry, ignoring the low growl of protest from Dean before affixing a square of gauze with strips of cloth tape. When he's done, supplies still resting on the bed beside Dean's hip, Sam stays right where he is, crouched between Dean's spread legs, hands curled protectively around lean, firm calves, grounding himself.

Predictably, Dean doesn't put up with the silence for long, his hand dropping to Sam's shoulder and tugging. "Alright, your turn, kiddo."

"Not done yet," Sam says, eying the nasty bruise coloring Dean's bicep.

But Dean only shakes his head and drags Sam to his feet and onto the bed, arranges Sam's legs to rest side by side before curling his hands around the bottom hem of Sam's shirt and peeling it off slowly. The cloth catches in a few spots, dried blood acting as glue on Sam's skin, but he raises his arms without complaint, lets Dean strip him, breath quickening at the tiny flickers of pain and brush of cool air.

This is a ritual between them now, a delicate push and pull that's been honed and perfected over the course of two decades. Sam doesn't remember when it started, doesn't remember a time when Dean wasn't the one cleaning off his scratches and scrapes, applying Band-Aids and bandages while wiping away Sam's snot and tears. He doesn't remember when he was four and tripped and fell face-first into a curb or the time he scraped his arms and knees from falling out of a tree at age six. He only knows they happened at all because Dean's told him, usually provided as evidence in teasing Sam about his clumsy nature.

Dean's never said whether or not he was the one to patch Sam up afterward, but Sam's sure he already knows. Because it's always been Dean. He can't imagine anything different.

He sucks in another quick breath as Dean's fingers ghost over his stomach, one finger lightly tracing the trail of hair below Sam's belly button. It's gone just as quickly as Dean hooks a thumb over the top snap of Sam's jeans, tugging it free before murmuring, "Lift up. Careful."

Reaching back to rest his weight on his hands, Sam does as instructed, hips arching just enough for Dean to tug Sam's jeans and underwear down his thighs. Sam's shoes are a barrier, but Dean doesn't say a word as he unties first one then the other and continues stripping Sam down to nothing. Sam helps out as much as he can, bending his knees as his jeans fall free. A sharp pain erupts in his stomach when he tries kicking the fabric away and he grits his teeth on a grunt, falls back onto his uninjured elbow as he glares down at the large gash marring his stomach.

"Man, he got you pretty good," Dean says, voice low and hushed as he touches around the area with a single fingertip.

"Not that bad," Sam replies because it really isn't. Dean's are worse: a nasty puncture just below his ribs, gaping gash on the inside of his right thigh and an already-purpling bruise on his left arm. He'd inadvertently been the bait in this hunt, the first in line against the shifter's wrath, and he's paying for it now.

Unsurprisingly, Dean ignores him, one firm hand pushing Sam back onto the bed as he reaches for the flask. After taking a quick sip, he passes it off to Sam and then grabs the washcloth and disappears into the bathroom.

Sam hears the faucet squeak to life and pulls in a breath, trying to will himself to relax for what he knows is coming. The whiskey helps, a slow burn working its way down his throat and stomach, seeping into his blood. He takes another taste as his brother steps back into the room, sets it aside as Dean kneels up onto the mattress and presses the warm cloth to Sam's battered skin.

It stings, every rough brush of the cloth igniting tiny pinpricks of pain, but Sam keeps his mouth shut, teeth gritted as Dean carefully cleans the area, capping it off with dash of peroxide. As Dean prepares the needle and thread, Sam grabs for the whiskey again, steeling himself with another hefty chug.

"You good?" Dean asks as Sam grimaces around his swallow.

Forcing a nod, Sam rests back and closes his eyes, breathes in deep. "Just do it."

The first puncture is always the worst, though he can't say the ones that follow are ever really any better. Sam clamps his mouth shut and grabs at the sheets, struggles to keep still as his brother stitches him back together piece by careful piece. Sweat breaks out across his forehead and trails down the sides of his face and every muscle in his body goes tense. His breathing becomes short and choppy and he squeezes his eyes shut, tries desperately to think of pretty girls and good food like Dean taught him to do when he was thirteen.

Just like always, the pain messes with his perception of time, the minutes seeming to stretch into hours and days before suddenly snapping back like a rubberband the second Dean ties off the end and murmurs, "Alright, Sammy. All done."

Panting, Sam blinks his eyes open and stares up at the ceiling, body still buzzing, wild with endorphins. The pain is still there, though somewhat dulled now to a low, continuous ache, almost even pleasant in a way Sam can't explain. Lifting his head, Sam glances down to examine Dean's handiwork, brings one tentative hand up to brush the bruised skin around the stitches.

"Leave it," Dean says, his hand settling atop Sam's hip as he leans down, presses in close, side to side.

And this is part of it, too. Part of the healing. It hadn't always been of course, and Sam isn't entirely certain he can pinpoint the exact moment it really shifted, when sopping up each other's blood and resetting broken bones felt like a natural lead in to having his brother's tongue in his mouth and dick in his hand. But that's how it is now, as normal as any other part of their lives. Just part of the ritual.

Dean hovers over him for a long moment, his touch moving from Sam's hip to low on Sam's stomach. Sam can feel Dean shaking just a little. And, though that's normal too, neither he nor Dean ever mention it.

The stillness is only broken when Sam brings his hand up to touch the leather of Dean's necklace, tracing it down to the metal amulet, cool against Sam's skin. He doesn't pull on it at all, just holds it there, but he feels Dean give all the same, leaning in the last few inches to breathe a sigh against Sam's lips.

And Sam meets him with no hesitation, just tilts his head and surrenders completely, whimpering against the delicious slide of Dean's tongue in his mouth. Because this is a whole new bandage in and of itself, a seal against the world at large, against everything beyond the four thin walls of this seedy motel room in the middle of Nebraska. This right here is where they tend to the deeper wounds, the scars hidden far below skin and bone, unseen by the naked eye.

This is where they really start to make each other whole again.

 **end.**


End file.
